


Therapy

by morelenmir



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Cute, F/M, Family, Fix-It, Fluff, Gen, Kid Fic, M/M, Pie, Prompt Fic, Puppies, Stanford Era, mud pies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-25
Updated: 2013-01-25
Packaged: 2017-11-26 21:56:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/654823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morelenmir/pseuds/morelenmir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Therapy" is the result of asking for fic prompts solely to help me deal with the S6 Supernatural finale by writing happy things. Well, they're mostly happy. I can't entirely stop angst from appearing, gah.</p><p>Each chapter is a separate story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stopping at the Shelter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bobby makes a stop on his drive home. The shelter isn't that far out of his way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from [Mercury973](http://mercury973.livejournal.com/).

The shaded tan and brown dog is young, paws so large the pup fumbles over them in its happy gamboling, and a mongrel, some mix of Lab and Shepherd and probably a handful of other breeds. Bobby watches the puppy race enthusiastically up and down the fence with the Cocker Spaniel puppy in the adjoining cage and there isn't a hint of a smile on his face, carefully creasing around his eyes. No sir.

"Mr. Singer?"

He looks up and away from the puppy, currently exchanging joyous barks with its neighbor. "Hey Sadie." The matriarch behind The Salinger Family's Rescue and Shelter grins at him, wisps of loose brown-into-silver hair clouding around her warm face.

"Been a while, Bobby." She tucks her clipboard under her arm and leans back against the low cabinet beside Bobby, watching the row of puppies. She doesn't ask about Rumsfeld2 and he appreciates that. Woman understands animals better'n people but knows the bond intimately. "Checking out the new arrivals?"

He shrugs, eyes dropping to the floor for a moment. They're quiet, the noisy sounds of the shelter's residents around them like an odd cocoon.

"That one have a name?" He juts his chin at the cage in front of them and Sadie hmms, flipping pages on the clipboard. Bobby knows she doesn't need to, that she knows the name of every animal that comes in.

"She doesn't." Sadie sets her clipboard on top of the cabinet and strides across the walkway, filtering through the ring of keys jingling on a belt loop. He follows and steps inside the puppy's cage when she beckons him. He crouches, grumbling inwardly at the irate protestations his knees put forth, and holds a hand out to the young dog.

She's under his palm instantly, all wriggles and tongue and tail and oversized paws. Bobby rubs her head, plays with her ears, one pointed and alert and the other floppy as a hound. The puppy tries to climb into his lap and when he firmly stops her, decides to simply cover his face in kisses.

Sadie chuckles and Bobby cracks an eye open to glance at her, dragging a sleeve over his face. "No name?"

"None," Sadie confirms. She watches the woofing puppy bounce around Bobby, knocking into him excitedly, and her eyes crinkle. "What's it gonna be?"

The puppy is large-boned, a lean frame that she'll grow into, and Bobby likes the light in her brown eyes. "Murkowski. Lisa Murkowski."

Lizzy is in the backseat of the Chevelle, signed documents on the passenger seat, and Bobby is turning into Singer Auto forty-three minutes later.


	2. Down Echoing Halls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Balthazar and Castiel are sneaking through the darkened school halls and Gabriel is curious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> High school AU prompt from [baba-o-riley](http://baba-o-riley.livejournal.com/); the nickname "Za" is nicked from [blackbirdrose](http://blackbirdrose.deviantart.com/).
> 
> Warning: mention of child abuse.

The two boys are far from masters of subtlety. Gabriel rolls his eyes as he silently watches his younger siblings across the hall from the concealing shadows.

"Shut up, Cassy, you're going to get us knicked!" Castiel glowers up at Balthazar and futilely tries to work his older brother's hand off his mouth. Balthazar glares at him until he rolls his eyes and nods, and then he lifts his hand.

"Ass." Castiel shoves him irately and hunkers down against the wall, poised in a ready crouch. "Remind me how you talked me into this." He cranes his neck to look at the tall junior spread on the wall, peeking around the bank of lockers.

A corn syrup-sweet smile appears on Balthazar's face and he reaches down and tousles Castiel's carefully maintained black hair. Over the sophomore's squawking he beams, "All I did was ask. And you were just curious enough to tag along."

"Tag along? And here I thought we were comrades." The brothers jerk in tandem and Gabriel snickers, popping from the lockers' shadows opposite them. He's unwrapping a Jolly Rancher—blue raspberry—as the senior strolls languidly across the empty hall, pointedly casual. He drops next to Castiel and offers him a green apple one. "So what's up, Za?"

Cas promptly pops the hard candy in his mouth and smirks. "We're going to spy on those two new kids, the brothers. What was their name again?" he murmurs, tapping a finger on his knee.

Gabriel snaps his fingers and points at first Cas, then Balthazar. "The Winchesters." His younger brothers sport matching smirks and he eyes them. "Why?"

Crossing his arms, Cas mutters grudgingly, "They keep beating us, Gabe."

Eyebrows shoot up. "Huh?" The idea of the skinny Winchesters, one a sophomore and the other just a frosh, beating Za and Cas in anything is inconceivable.

"Za found out they stay late for some private tutoring or something." Castiel continues, tone almost sulky, "They're flattening us."

"I reiterate: Huh?"

Balthazar looks as miffed as their youngest brother. "The older one, Dean, was pretty much instantly put on my track team. The guy is so thin I think he just turns sideways and zips down the track. Half of my team is considering replacing me with him. Some rail thin kid as team captain!"

Cas throws in his complaint as Balthazar draws in a breath. "The little brother is like an idiot savant in math and English. He's been humiliating me in the advanced classes at every turn." He tosses his rumpled dark head peevishly. "The boy looks like he wandered out of the docks: nasty mop hair, tall enough he blocks the sun and skinny as a stick of gum, shuffling around hidden inside a hoodie twice his size. He's…unseemly."

Gabe listens to them incredulously, waiting for them to slow. "So. You, oh moronic brothers of mine, feel threatened by two yokels who happen to be talented and instead of trying to buddy up to them, you're spying on these guys."

His brothers look shamefaced but not enough. He doesn't move from his slouched position, sitting still and allowing his 18 year old voice to deepen, rumble out like Dad's, and he studies them seriously. "You idiots. Do you know anything about the Winchester brothers? Why Dean has special hall and class passes, why he's never very far from Sam, why they look like hell?"

Gabe pauses, lets them shift and think for a few moments, before continuing. His intent voice drops yet lower. "Do you two know anything about their dad?" He sees Za stiffen, eyes narrowing as he shifts the pieces together.

"C'mon guys, you don't have any info on them. And I would strongly suggest you actually talk to them before deciding they're your arch rivals." Gabriel pushes to his feet gracefully, glancing sternly down at Castiel, up to Balthazar. "Think about it." He turns on them and slips away down the dark hall, no echoes from his quiet footfalls.

Behind him Cas says softly, "Za?"

Balthazar hushes him. "You don't have gym classes with either of them." He hesitates and Gabe can hear the slow exhalation, tired and heavy and pained. "Dean…he's bruised. Everywhere."

A sharp intake of breath heralds Castiel's dawning realization. "Badly?" Balthazar must have acknowledged him silently for Cas says firmly, "We have to help them, Za." Ah, there's baby bro's patented protective streak kicking in.

Za's chuckle flutters through the empty corridors. "Well, we know what classroom they're in. Come on, Cassy."

Footsteps _shuff_ away and Gabe leans against a dinged locker door, a small smile curving his lips. Nimble fingers swiftly remove the cellophane from a watermelon Jolly Rancher. The flavor is as sweet on his tongue as knowing that his little brothers have bigger hearts than they sometimes remember.


	3. Playing in the Dirt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean is trying to clean the Impala but Cas and little Caleb interrupt him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from [baba-o-riley](http://baba-o-riley.livejournal.com/) and [Mercury973](http://mercury973.livejournal.com/).

"Daddy!" Caleb's holler of delight makes Dean grin, the particular one that happily scrunches his eyes almost shut and tugs his lips just barely up. Short, urgent steps pound over rain-moist dirt, zeroing in behind him and then dance impatiently.

"Daddy daddy daddy!"

Dean hauls himself out of the Impala's backseat, keeping a hold of the greasy paper wrappers snagged off the floor, and hunkers down to the three year old's level. "What's up buddy?" It's only been nine months since the boy was left on Bobby's front porch—sick and crying through his shivers—and the change never fails to amaze Dean. And he knows that Sam secretly loves getting called Uncle Moose, thanks to Dean's cheerful influence.

Little Caleb's blue eyes are huge with absolute delight. "Lookit Papa show me!" Dean glances up at Castiel, who'd trailed the boy to Dean silently, and his expression is pleased as he looks between Dean and Caleb.

"What did Papa show you?" Dean eyes Cas and realizes he is just covered in mud. From the knee down his jeans are a wet brown with dirt splatters across his shirt, smears from left cheekbone to chin, and a lot of mud on his hands up to the elbow of his rolled sleeves. Dean's grin is widening into utter amusement.

Caleb puffs up his chest proudly. "Pie!"

"Mud pie, to be specific," Cas corrects, lifting his heartily browned hands.

Laughing, Dean shakes his head and dumps the trash into a half-full garbage bag. "And that's what you've been doing all morning? I'm here making our girl look pretty after your burger spree," Cas makes a face that clearly says _and it was worth all of it_ , "and you two have been making mud pies?"

Caleb's eyes grow larger, a puppy face that matches Sam at his best. "Papa says he never did 'em before an' we hadda try."

Dean drops a hand on Caleb's light brown head, rumples his hair until the boy grins up at him, peeking through bangs that need to be trimmed yet again. "You didn't invite me?" he pouts and Cas snorts a quiet laugh, shaking his head. Dean slides into the driver's seat and leans over to grab straw wrappers under the glove box. A thud and shuffling slide informs him that Caleb had clambered into the back and sure enough, a chubby face appears over the back of the bench.

"Papa'n me bringed you one," he announces and the Impala dips a little, Cas materializing next to Caleb.

Dean raises a teasing eyebrow. "Really? I don't see it."

"I put it in m'pocket." Caleb's towheaded noggin ducks out of sight and Dean looks inquiringly at Cas. Cas shrugs.

"I've never made a mud pie before. The lure was too strong." Dean snickers.

Caleb grunts and wriggles on the bench, working at a jacket pocket. "Um, it's stuck." His face squishes up unhappily and Cas instantly leans over, guiding Caleb's short fingers down the zipper. Caleb huffs triumphantly and the next thing Dean knows mud is speckled across his face.

The kid was a bit enthusiastic removing the mud confection from its confines.

Scraping some away from his eyes, Dean notices that pretty much all of the Impala's interior now looks like a Dalmatian shed its spot inside of her. His gaze immediately arrows in on the pint sized culprit. Caleb is shrinking back in the seat, both hands cupped around a sloppy pattie.

"Oops."

Cas is shaking and when Dean glances at him, he begins to laugh, loud and clear. Dean wrinkles his nose and sighs dramatically. "All right, you win. Mud pies it is!" He leads the way out of the Impala, Caleb whooping at his side and Cas still chortling, and proceeds to lose himself in the complexities of creating the perfect mud pie.


	4. Twisting a Tale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel realizes his Purgatory Powershake isn't what it's supposed be and events happen differently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set directly after the end of "The Man Who Knew Too Much".
> 
> Dean/Cas hug prompt from [baba-o-riley](http://baba-o-riley.livejournal.com/).

The air snaps sharply when Balthazar disappears, the power coursing through him causing a strange ripple in the place where he'd been standing. Bobby and the Winchesters blink at his abrupt exit, Castiel still propped against the stairs and as shocked as Dean's ever seen him, face pale under unkempt dark hair.

"So…" Sam says hesitatingly, "Balthazar is God now?"

"Looks that way." Bobby takes his ball cap off blankly, studies its brim. "Didn't see that coming."

"Yeah, neither did Cas," Dean mumbles, the surprise making his voice soft. He glances at the angel and his eyes widen. "Cas? Hey, you okay?"

Concerned, he moves quickly to Castiel's side and eventually Castiel looks away from where Balthazar had proclaimed his newfound godhood minutes earlier. "He opened Purgatory." His rough voice is grave and words ponderous.

"Yeah."

"He took my place."

"Don't beat yourself over it." Dean leans in, shoves Castiel gently with his side. "You would've been too serious." Castiel's eyes dart to him, probing and mildly confused. Dean chuckles. "This God is cool with the debauching. I'm not gonna argue with that."

Bobby and Sam snort in unison and Castiel appears to be wrestling between glaring at Dean or simply staring at him. Dean grins at him until a faint ease steals over his face.

"It will certainly be different."

Dean reaches out, wraps his right arm around Castiel's shoulders and pulls him up and in, snugged firm against his jacket. "We won dude. We're okay." The relief in his voice matches the expression on every person's face. Castiel half-turns toward Dean to sidle his left arm around his torso, mirroring the tightness of Dean's hold, and if it looks like they are holding each other up Bobby and Sam don't say.

"We're safe," he agrees quietly, and a little smile steals onto the face of the hunter at the angel's side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea of God!Balthazar's role borrowed from [tasabian](http://hils.livejournal.com/4238160.html?thread=28093008#t28093008).


	5. a bird pinioned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean is more taciturn than usual and Sam wants him to talk. Sparring turns to wrestling turns to two brothers laughing side by side watching clouds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set after the pilot.
> 
> Lovely prompt from [jennytork](http://jennytork.livejournal.com/).

A loud smack cuts through the early autumn morning, the sound as crisp as the air it moves through. The small red mark blooming on Sam's cheek is shaped like Dean's fingers and he tosses his head, trying to move errant strands of hair from his field of vision without lowering his guard, elbows in tight and hands defensively high. A second smack, more like a loud tap, hits the same spot.

Sam grunts in irritation. Dean doesn't grin at having riled his brother as he would usually, instead driving a knifing hand toward Sam's solar plexus. Sam twists, swings an arm down to knock Dean away, and for a third time Dean gets his cheek. The slap is harder, stinging and sharp, and Sam protests.

"Dean, what's the deal?" They don't stop circling, knees bent and center of gravity low. Sam's eyes narrow when Dean's response is to thin his lips and whip a booted foot at Sam's knee wordlessly. The blow would have hit the side of his knee and in a real fight, possibly broken it. Sam moves with alacrity, dodging it and glaring at his brother. "Dude!"

Dean's expression is closed, body taut with barely held tension. Sam decides it's enough and lunges at him, arms swooping wide to pinion Dean in place. Dean scrabbles, trying to get back, but Sam is quicker and aborts his brother's attempt to flee, cutting the "friendly" sparring match short.

"Lemmee go," Dean growls after a heated minute of struggling to escape Sam's giant arms. Above him Sam's head shakes.

"Mm, no. Not until you talk." Dean growls louder, yet he remains, only throwing up a token resistance.

Sam groans when an elbow pointedly nudges his stomach, hooks a long leg around Dean's left knee, and takes both of them down to the dewy grass. Dean sputters and spits blades out of his mouth, to Sam's amusement. He leans over Dean, keeping pressure on his back and shoulders. "What, you think I'm out of shape?"

Dean goes still. Sam frowns. "I'm sharp Dean, you don't have to worry."

"M'not worried," Dean mutters into the turf, exasperation rumbling in his tone. He pauses and Sam cranes his head closer to Dean's, listening. Four seconds later Sam's staring at the reddening oak leaves above them, Dean pinning him with a cocky smirk. "You're soft, college boy. Need to be on top of your game before you hit the road." Sam rolls his eyes.

Dean and his ridiculous need to test Sam in everything.

He scissors his legs, driving upward into Dean's lean body to swing an arm tight around his torso. The breath huffs out of Dean with a surprised sound and Sam grins. "Care to annul your previous statement?"

A chuckle leaps out of Dean and he twists in Sam's grasp and locks strong arms with him. The smirk changes to a broad smile, open and bright. "Don't think I need to, Sammy." His eyes twinkle and that's all the warning Sam has before Dean hurls himself at Sam, whooping. Sam falls back with a squawk and flails for a second.

He recovers quickly however, and practically pounces on Dean in retaliation. They wrestle until they're both panting, shirts and jeans wet, Sam's hair sticking to his sweaty forehead. Sam heaves Dean off him with an "oof" and lies on his back, dragging chilly air gratefully into his lungs. "You're wriggly for a short guy," he says between gasps that sounds like chortles.

"Shuddup Sasquatch," Dean snorts, flopped beside him, arms cushioning his neck. The insult is familiar and falls easily from his lips. Sam grins.

"Dude," he nudges Dean with his knee. "That cloud looks like a dog."

"Really Sam?" Dean says sarcastically. "Cloud watching?"

Nothing Dean can say right now can burst Sam's bubble. He glances over with a large smile plastered on his face. "Well it does."

Dean peruses the pale blue sky for a minute before he nudges Sam in return. "That one looks like you."

Sam eyes it warily. "It looks like a girl."

"Exactly." Dean's grin is ear to ear and irresistible. Sam shakes his head, a chuckle churning in his throat, and turns his gaze heavenward again.

"Hey, there's a Wendigo!"


	6. To Purée a Pie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary helps Dean prepare Sammy's first pie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from [einodia](http://einodia.livejournal.com/).

Mary Winchester steps into the kitchen, finding the source of the clamor she’d heard for the last two minutes. Four and a half years old and precocious as the day is long, Dean looks up at her without a trace of guilt on his round face, standing on s tool pulled up to the counter under the window. His freckles are dusted over with flour and the white powder speckles down the front of his overalls.

“Dean.” She tries to sound at least somewhat stern. “What’re you doing?”

He sticks a white finger in his mouth and regards her for a moment. “Sammy wants pie,” he says eventually, words slightly garbled. “I’m gonna get him some.” Mary notices two plates on the counter, forks next to them, and a knife sunk to the hilt in her fresh cherry pie. Dean begins to lick his fingers and she smiles when she realizes it’s the powdered sugar from the pie.

“I see you’d like some too,” she teases gently, ruffling his blond hair. He looks affronted.

“Only if Sammy has some!”

Mary laughs and explains, “Sammy isn’t quite old enough to eat pie yet sweetie.”

Dean’s eyes widen in shock and he sputters in four-year-old horror, “Can’t have pie?!”

He’s in genuine distress and Mary thinks quickly. “Wait, there is a way.”

Dean bounces excitedly around her as she cuts a small slice—“A baby piece!”—and drops it into the blender. He bounces curiously on a stool, leaning forward and intently watches the pie purée with hands clamped over ears against the loud noise. He bounces eagerly while she pours the warm red goop of cherries and crust into a bowl. He bounces impatiently as she runs a dampened cloth over his face and down his front.

“Now, go get Sammy,” she says and smiles when Dean rockets out of the kitchen, whooping his brother’s name. Little Sam is half carried, half dragged into the dining room, where Mary helps Dean place him in his baby seat, and Dean insists on tying Sam’s bib himself.

She walks back to the kitchen to grab the bowl of pie and Dean meets her halfway, hands held up for the dish. He takes it carefully and hurries back to Sammy, who is observing everything with wide, hazel eyes. Tugging a chair closer to the newest Winchester, he clambers up and places the bowl on the table and faces Sammy.

“Now pay ‘ttention,” he says importantly, “This is pie. It’s Mommy’s and it’s the best and you’re gonna like it more than anything.” The brothers look at each other, Dean’s serious gaze studying Sam’s innocent and curious expression. Mary leans against the doorframe and quietly watches. Carefully loading the spoon Mary’d given him with a healthy dollop of puréed cherry pie, Dean encourages Sammy to open his mouth and quickly pops the spoon in and out, depositing its delicious payload.

Dean doesn’t hear the click of Mary’s camera, recording the moment, watching through the lens Dean watch Sammy work the pie over in his mouth. Sammy’s dark head is tilted a little to the side as his face wriggles through the strong flavor. Dean’s mouth is open a little, an expectant grin lighting his face, and he’s leaning forward over elbows propped on the chair’s arm. Sam blinks slowly once, twice.

“Whaddaya think Sammy?” Dean beams.

Sam scrunches up his face in distaste and messily spits the pie out. Dean is horrified.


	7. Gifts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam isn't home and John is stopping by for his bi-monthly snoop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from [einodia](http://einodia.livejournal.com).

Sam’s in class. It’s a good thing because he’d probably blow a gasket if he walked in right now, John reasons. The boy’d most likely not appreciate finding his father in his apartment. Especially after said father might have broken into the apartment. Still, what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

John steps light, habit driving him, and he discovers two new squeaky boards on the living room floor that weren’t there last time. He makes a mental note and moves into the modest kitchen. There’s a difference, some change in the place that he hasn’t yet been able to name. The protections are still present. Solid salt line at the door, hidden under a strip of black duct tape. Charms mixed in a potpourri on the bookshelf by the TV. A scrawl of Latin in tiny letters wraps each window and doorway, written with a fine tipped permanent marker. Good.

He opens the refrigerator hunting for a beer and recoils. There is no protection against the odors that curl out and force themselves into his nostrils. His son may be bright but John has no idea what’s going on inside the fridge save that nothing on earth can save its contents. He’s vaguely hoping it’s for a science experiment and not actually meant to be eaten. Closing the door before he’s robbed of the ability to eat for a week, John flips casually through Sam’s mail. He likes to keep close tabs on his boy and to hell with illegality.

A pale stiff envelope catches his eye and he tugs it from its position near the bottom. The name embossed in the upper left corner is familiar, however it is the title underneath “Larry D. Kramer” that causes John’s eyebrows to climb. It’s already been opened so he’s spared having to reseal it. Drawing the letter out, noting the quality of the paper and the fact it had been handwritten instead of typed, John straightens the paper and reads.

Slowly his mouth opens. A smile glimmers in his hazel eyes and he reads it again, just to be sure. Sam, his Sam, on the Dean’s List? The laugh that huffs out of him is quiet and borderlines a chuckle and John sets the letter on the counter. Looks at it. Memorizes it. His son. On the Dean’s List at Stanford University.

That little laugh again and John runs a hand over his stubble, trying to conceal his smile from the invisible audience. “That’s it, Sammy,” he says, voice scarcely more than a rough whisper. “Don’t stop climbing.” He looks the paper over again, then folds it meticulously and stuffs it back in the envelope. It’s shuffled into place below the bills and ads and letters and he straightens the stack just so.

He opens his satchel—no one’s going to look twice at an older student, casual slacks and buttoned shirt, walking though campus with a satchel slung over his shoulder—and pulls out the small mesh bag of organic satsumas he’s bought in the market just north of Sam’s place. They’re damned expensive but he’d remembered Sam loved December for their availability. Sam’s rearranged his cabinets and John finds the bowls in the second one he opens.

His knife quickly cuts the mesh and the satsumas tumble into the bowl. John easily palms one determinedly heading for the floor and puts it with its mates. He casts about for a second and snags a small magnetic notepad off the fridge and sets it on the counter beside the bowl. John digs out the pen in an inside pocket and taps his fingers with it, running over what he could say in a short note.

He puts the pen on the paper, hesitates. The swirling floral pattern on the lined pad stares at him and he stares blankly back. Then a grin touches his craggy face as he looks at the flowers, the potpourri, the pink Tupperware box of cookies above the refrigerator, and he begins to write. For a change, the letters aren’t cramped or scratched hastily. John tears the sheet off, puts the pen away, the notepad back on the fridge, and sticks the note in the bowl of fruit.

The satsumas are displayed on the coffee table and the small piece of paper is noticeable against its bright orange background. There’s one word on it. One is all John needs.

“Congratulations.” For being recognized as an excellent law student, for making the Dean’s List, for finally bringing your girlfriend home, for getting out of the only life you’ve ever known, for becoming your own man. The paper’s too small to fit all that but John is content with a single word. It’s all that’s needed.

Sam’s door clicks shut and a small chuckle drifts down the hall; this must be how a stereotypically proud father feels. Like he could leap Mt. Everest.


End file.
